Tales of Wonder

  The beach was cold and empty. Even the gulls were mute.

  “I do not like this,” Merdock said. “It smells of a storm.”

  He beached the boat and walked home. The sky gathered in around him. At the cottage he hesitated but a moment, then pulled savagely on the door. He waited for the warmth to greet him. But the house was as empty and cold as the beach.

  Merdock went into the house and stared at the hearth, black and silent. Then, fear riding in his heart, he turned slowly and looked over the door.

  The sealskin was gone.

  “Sel!” he cried then as he ran from the house, and he named his sons in a great anguished cry as he ran. Down to the sea-ledge he went, calling their names like a prayer: “James, John, Michael, George, William, Rob, Tom!”

  But they were gone.

  The rocks were gray, as gray as the sky. At the water’s edge was a pile of clothes that lay like discarded skins. Merdock stared out far across the cove and saw a seal herd swimming. Yet not a herd. A white seal and seven strong pups.

  “Sel!” he cried again. “James, John, Michael, George, William, Rob, Tom!”

  For a moment, the white seal turned her head, then she looked again to the open sea and barked out seven times. The wind carried the faint sounds back to the shore. Merdock heard, as if in a dream, the seven seal names she called. They seemed harsh and jangling to his ear.

  Then the whole herd dove. When they came up again they were but eight dots strung along the horizon, lingering for a moment, then disappearing into the blue edge of sea.

  Merdock recited the seven seal names to himself. And in that recitation was a song, a litany to the god of the seals. The names were no longer harsh, but right. And he remembered clearly again the moonlit night when the seals had danced upon the sand. Maidens all. Not a man or boy with them. And the white seal turning and choosing him, giving herself to him that he might give the seal people life.

  His anger and sadness left him then. He turned once more to look at the sea and pictured his seven strong sons on their way.

  He shouted their seal names to the wind. Then he added, under his breath, as if trying out a new tongue, “Fair wind, my sons. Fair wind.”

  The Bird of Time

  Once there was a Miller who was named Honest Hans because he never lied or gave false weight. He had an only son called Pieter, whom many considered a fool.

  Pieter often sat long hours looking steadily at the sky or a bird or a flower, saying nothing and smiling softly to himself. At such times he would not answer a question, even if someone asked him the time of day or the price of a sack of flour.

  Yes, many considered Pieter a fool. But his father did not.

  “Pieter is a dreamer,” he said. “He knows beyond things. He understands the songs of the birds. And if he prefers the company of dumb plants and animals to that of people, perhaps it is a wise choice. It is not for me to say.”

  But the people of the village felt it was for them to say. They said so many unkind things about Pieter that the miller grew sad. At last Pieter said to him, “Father, I will go and seek my fortune. Then, perhaps, both you and I will have peace from this ceaseless wagging of mischievous tongues.”

  And so Pieter made his way into the wide, wide world.

  He had traveled only two days and three nights into the wide, wide world when he heard a weak cry. It sounded like a call for help. Immediately, and without a thought for his own safety, Pieter rushed in the direction of the sound and found a tiny brown bird caught in a trap. He opened the trap and set the bird free. But the bird was so weak from lack of water and food that it only had time for a few faint chirps before it folded its tired wings and died.

  However, since Pieter could speak the language of the birds, those few chirps were enough to tell him something of great importance. He hurried off to a nearby tree, where a nest lay concealed in the topmost branches.

  In the nest was a single egg, gleaming like marble, white and veined with red and gold. Pieter picked it up. He thought about what the dying bird had told him: “In the egg lives the bird of time. When the egg is broken open, the bird will emerge singing. As long as it continues to sing, time will flow onward like a river. But if you should hold the bird and say, ‘Bird of time, make time go fast,’ time will speed up for everyone except yourself and those you hold until you loose the bird again. And,” the dying bird had continued, “if you say, ‘Bird of time, make time go slow,’ time will slow down for everyone around. And you and those you hold will run through time like the wind through leafless trees.”

  Then the little brown bird had shivered all over. “But never say, ‘Bird of time, make time stop,’ for then there will be a great shaking and a great quaking, and time will stop for you and those you hold forevermore.”

  With that, the bird had cried out, “Good friend, goodbye,” and died.

  Pieter was awed by this. But not overawed, for he was a dreamer, and dreamers believe in miracles, both large and small. So he put the egg in his cap, his cap on his head, and journeyed farther into the wide, wide world.

  He had hardly been gone another night and day when suddenly there came a second cry for help. This time it was not a little cry, but a great weeping and a wailing and a terrible sobbing that filled the entire kingdom through which he was traveling.

  Once again, without a thought for his own safety, Pieter ran toward the sound. Soon he came upon a large palace. Before it was a crowd of men and women and children. They were all crying and moaning, twisting their kerchiefs or stomping on their caps.

  “What is the matter?” asked Pieter. “Is there something wrong?”

  “You must be worse than a fool,” said an old man. “For even a fool could see that we weep and cry because the wicked giant has just now stolen the king’s daughter dear and carried her off to Castle Gloam. And none of us is brave enough or smart enough or strong enough to rescue her.”

  “Well, then, I must,” said Pieter.

  “Indeed you are a fool,” said another man. “For if we, who are the people of the mightiest king in the world, are not brave enough or smart enough or strong enough to rescue the princess, then only a fool would try.”

  “Fool I may be,” said Pieter, “or worse. But I think you are more foolish than I if you will not try at all.”

  And off he went with not a word more toward Castle Gloam to rescue the king’s beautiful daughter.

  Pieter walked and walked seven days and seven nights to Castle Gloam, which teetered on the edge of the world (for in those days the world was flat). At last he found the castle and pushed through the enormous door.

  It was nearly dark inside the castle, and cold. A single light shone dimly at the end of a long hall. It was toward that light that Pieter walked. When he came to where the light began and the hall ended, he saw the king’s daughter. She was sitting on a golden throne in a golden cage and weeping as though her tears could wash away the bars.

  “Do not cry,” said Pieter when he was quite close to the cage. “I am here to bring you home.” He spoke bravely, although he had no idea how to accomplish what he promised.

  When she heard him, the king’s daughter looked up, her eyes shimmering with tears. And when she looked at him, Pieter felt her gaze go straight to his heart; he had never seen anyone so beautiful. He knelt before her and took off his cap. And the egg, which had been hidden there, nestled in his hair.

  Just then he heard loud footsteps and a giant voice shouting.

  And before Pieter could move, the floors shook and the walls trembled and the giant of Castle Gloam stomped into the room.

  Pieter turned around to stare at the giant. And as he turned, the egg, which had been nestled in his hair, fell off his head and broke upon the floor. A little brown bird arose singing from the broken egg and alighted on Pieter’s hand.

  Pieter stood up. Reaching into the cage, he took the hand of the king’s daughter gently in his. Then he said, “Bird of time, make time go slow.”

/>   Immediately the little brown bird began singing a very slow, measured song. And time, which had been flowing along like a swift river, suddenly became muddy and slow for the giant. And he moved awkwardly through the air as though it were water.

  Without letting go of the princess’s hand, Pieter quickly opened the cage with a golden key he found hanging nearby. The king’s daughter ran out. Then hand in hand they raced out into the countryside, like the wind through leafless trees. There they danced and laughed. And Pieter threw his arms up into the air with joy, and the bird of time was loosed.

  At once time began to move normally again. In a moment Pieter and the princess heard the loud, rattling footsteps of the giant as he searched through Castle Gloam for the king’s daughter.

  “Quickly,” said Pieter, taking the princess by the hand. “We must run.”

  But run as fast as they could, they could not run faster than the giant. With loud, earth-shattering footsteps, he gained at every stride.

  “Save yourself!” cried the king’s daughter. “It is foolish to stay with me.”

  But Pieter merely held out his hand, and the bird of time flew down and nestled in it.

  “Lie down,” said Pieter to the king’s daughter. And he lay down by her side in the tall meadow grass.

  “Bird of time, make time go fast,” commanded Pieter.

  The little brown bird began to sing a light, quick song. And time sped up for everyone but Pieter and the lovely princess.

  The giant fairly flew over to the two bodies lying side by side on the ground. He twirled around and about them. To his speeded-up eyes they seemed dead, so measured and slow was their breathing. The giant gnashed his teeth in rage at having lost his beautiful captive. Hastily he pounded his fists on the ground. Then he noticed the bird of time in Pieter’s hand singing a light, quick song. Forgetting the princess, he tore the bird out of Pieter’s hand with a swift, sharp, angry movement.

  Gloating, the giant ran back to Castle Gloam with the bird. Pieter and the princess watched him go.

  Now the giant had heard what Pieter had said to the bird, and he realized that there was magic about. He thought that if the bird could make time speed up or make time slow down, it could help him conquer the world. And because he was evil and exceptionally greedy, the giant thought what a great fortune he could gather and how many beautiful princesses he could steal, if time could be stopped altogether and no one but he could move at all.

  He put out his hand as he had seen Pieter do, and the bird nestled into it, almost disappearing in his vast palm.

  “Bird of time,” he commanded, “make time stop!”

  And the bird of time stopped singing.

  The giant did not know that this was a calamitous thing to say. He had not heard the dying bird’s warning that no one can make time stop altogether. And he was too wicked to worry about it on his own.

  Suddenly there was a great quaking. And a great shaking. The rocks that Castle Gloam stood upon began to crack. Fissures appeared in the walls. The roof began to tremble. Then, very slowly, Castle Gloam slid over the edge of the world and disappeared.

  And inside the lost castle the giant and the silent bird of time were caught forever in a timeless scream.

  Pieter and the king’s daughter watched as the castle sank out of sight. As soon as the castle disappeared over the edge of the world, the world returned to normal again. Once more time flowed onward like a river.

  Then Pieter and the princess looked at one another and smiled. And hand in hand they walked back for seven days and seven nights until they reached the palace of the king.

  There Pieter and the princess were married amidst great singing and dancing. In due time, Pieter himself became king, and lived a long and full life with his beautiful wife always at his side.

  And though Pieter had found another egg veined with red and gold nestled in his cap right after the bird and the giant had disappeared, he was never fool enough to tell. Instead he gave the egg into the keeping of his father, Honest Hans. And the old miller buried it under the mill in a wooden box, where it has remained safe and unbroken to this very day.

  The Weaver of Tomorrow

  Once, on the far side of yesterday, there lived a girl who wanted to know the future. She was not satisfied with knowing that the grass would come up each spring and that the sun would go down each night. The true knowledge she desired was each tick of tomorrow, each fall and each failure, each heartache and each pain, that would be the portion of every man. And because of this wish of hers, she was known as Vera, which is to say, True.

  At first it was easy enough. She lived simply in a simple town, where little happened to change a day but a birth or a death that was always expected. And Vera awaited each event at the appointed bedside and, in this way, was always the first to know.

  But as with many wishes of the heart, hers grew from a wish to a desire, from a desire to an obsession. And soon, knowing the simple futures of the simple people in that simple town was not enough for her.

  “I wish to know what tomorrow holds for everyone,” said Vera. “For every man and woman in our country. For every man and woman in our world.”

  “It is not good, this thing you wish,” said her father.

  But Vera did not listen. Instead she said, “I wish to know which king will fall and what the battle, which queen will die and what the cause. I want to know how many mothers will cry for babies lost and how many wives will weep for husbands slain.”

  And when she heard this, Vera’s mother made the sign against the Evil One, for it was said in their simple town that the future was the Devil’s dream.

  But Vera only laughed and said loudly, “And for that, I want to know what the Evil One himself is doing with his tomorrow.”

  Since the Evil One himself could not have missed her speech, the people of the town visited the mayor and asked him to send Vera away.

  The mayor took Vera and her mother and father, and they sought out the old man who lived in the mountain, who would answer one question a year. And they asked him what to do about Vera.

  The old man who lived in the mountain, who ate the seeds that flowers dropped and the berries that God wrought, and who knew all about yesterdays and cared little about tomorrow, said, “She must be apprenticed to the Weaver.”

  “A weaver!” said the mayor and Vera’s father and her mother all at once. They thought surely that the old man who lived in the mountain had at last gone mad.

  But the old man shook his head. “Not a weaver, but the Weaver, the Weaver of Tomorrow. She weaves with a golden thread and finishes each piece with a needle so fine that each minute of the unfolding day is woven into her work. They say that once every hundred years there is need for an apprentice, and it is just that many years since one has been found.”

  “Where does one find this Weaver?” asked the mayor.

  “Ah, that I cannot say,” said the old man who lived in the mountain, “for I have answered one question already.” And he went back to his cave and rolled a stone across the entrance, a stone small enough to let the animals in but large enough to keep the townspeople out.

  “Never mind,” said Vera. “I would be apprenticed to this Weaver. And not even the Devil himself can keep me from finding her.”

  And so saying, she left the simple town with nothing but the clothes upon her back. She wandered until the hills got no higher but the valleys got deeper. She searched from one cold moon until the next. And at last, without warning, she came upon a cave where an old woman in black stood waiting.

  “You took the Devil’s own time coming,” said the old woman.

  “It was not his time at all,” declared Vera.

  “Oh, but it was,” said the old woman, as she led the girl into the cave.

  And what a wondrous place the cave was. On one wall hung skeins of yarn of rainbow colors. On the other walls were tapestries of delicate design. In the center of the cave, where a single shaft of sunlight fell, was the loom o
f polished ebony, higher than a man and three times as broad, with a shuttle that flew like a captive blackbird through the golden threads of the warp.

  For a year and a day, Vera stayed in the cave apprenticed to the Weaver. She learned which threads wove the future of kings and princes, and which of peasants and slaves. She was first to know in which kingdoms the sun would set and which kingdoms would be gone before the sun rose again. And though she was not yet allowed to weave, she watched the black loom where each minute of the day took shape, and learned how, once it had been woven, no power could change its course. Not an emperor, not a slave, not the Weaver herself. And she was taught to finish the work with a golden thread and a needle so fine that no one could tell where one day ended and the next began. And for a year she was happy.

  But finally the day dawned when Vera was to start her second year with the Weaver. It began as usual. Vera rose and set the fire. Then she removed the tapestry of yesterday from the loom and brushed it outside until the golden threads mirrored the morning sun. She hung it on a silver hook that was by the entrance to the cave. Finally she returned to the loom which waited mutely for the golden warp to be strung. And each thread that Vera pulled tight sang like the string of a harp. When she was through, Vera set the pot on the fire and woke the old woman to begin the weaving.

  The old woman creaked and muttered as she stretched herself up. But Vera paid her no heed. Instead, she went to the Wall of Skeins and picked at random the colors to be woven. And each thread was a life.

  “Slowly, slowly,” the old Weaver had cautioned when Vera first learned to choose the threads. “At the end of each thread is the end of a heartbeat; the last of each color is the last of a world.” But Vera could not learn to choose slowly, carefully. Instead she plucked and picked like a gay bird in the seed.

  “And so it was with me,” said the old Weaver with a sigh. “And so it was at first with me.”

  Now a year had passed, and the old woman kept her counsel to herself as Vera’s fingers danced through the threads. Now she went creaking and muttering to the loom and began to weave. And now Vera turned her back to the growing cloth that told the future and took the pot from the fire to make their meal. But as soon as that was done, she would hurry back to watch the growing work, for she never wearied of watching the minutes take shape on the ebony loom.